i write this to you as i lay under the olive tree on the front lawn writing in my journal first then to be typed out later thats if i can organize my thoughts of course it has not even been a week yet and already i can’t understand how i lived in such a way before i wake up in the morning and step outside onto my grandparents back porch and i can see all of the small town in the distance there is usually a layer of fog. everything is quiet. just a few roosters and birds sin

ah winter, the season of sitting with yourself the longest. rest. hibernation. shedding. after all, mother nature doesn’t bloom all year round. why would we expect ourselves to? each year, especially after january 1st, there’s this lingering, sometimes obnoxious, pressure to achieve. constantly. maybe that has something, or everything, to do with social media. watching everyone announce their goals, what they are doing this year to grind and glow up. seeing what everyone else

or is the world too hard? from the time I can form my very first memory I have been told I am too sensitive. i have always pondered things long after they finish, gripped tightly onto things long, long after i was supposed to let go, stared at walls after movies end, unable to start a new book until i have grieved the one i finished, taken everything far too personally, loved very deeply, and of course walking through life carrying around what feels like the heaviest of hear